


Ghost: Marginalia

by theherocomplex



Series: Commander Eliza Shepard [12]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Drabbles, Spoilers, headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles, Tumblr fics, headcanons from the Ghost universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**2158.** _

Hannah stared down at what used to be her daughter’s room, then at her daughter, standing in the middle of the wreckage, shrieking as she sent an unsteady cascade of dark energy through a pile of toy bricks. 

"Dammit," Hannah sighed. 

 Eliza looked up and grinned, impossibly wide. “Mommy!  _Look!”_ She swept her fist through the air, and a thick blue crackle of light burst around her.

The static flash made the hairs on the back of Hannah’s neck stand up, and the bookshelf tumbled over. Hannah managed to snatch her daughter out of the way just before the books hit the floor.

"I did that!" Eliza crowed, and laughed. "I did  _that!”_

"You did," said Hannah, gritting her teeth.  _God help me, you did._

Eliza wriggled closer and shoved her face into Hannah’s neck. She smelled clean and sweet, but a sour, electric note flowed under the baby-fine scent of her skin. 

Hannah waited until Eliza fell asleep to start making her calls. Nothing would ever be easy with this child. 

**_***_ **

_**2170.** _

"I want to apply for the new Savant amps," said Shepard. She kept her hands clasped behind her back and didn’t smile when Instructor Lamia grinned down at her. "I’m ready."

"Oh, no," said the asari. "You’re not." 

Shepard lifted her chin a little higher. ”Yes, I am,” she said, trying hard to sound reasonable. “I can spike as high as half the L2s in my year, even with —” 

"No," said the asari, still smiling maddeningly. "I said, you aren’t ready."

"Why the hell not?" Shepard blazed, her patience frayed by not enough sleep and eating nothing except protein bars for the past four days. "I’m strong enough." 

"I know. I’ve had you in class for four years." 

"So?"

"So you’re strong. Strength, power, drive, you have all of these things. No one’s questioning that. But you lack  _control._  Throw that datapad at me.” 

Shepard followed the line of Lamia’s arm, and picked up the datapad from the table.  _If you say so, Lamia,_  she thought, and wound up like she was ready to pitch another no-hitter, all her weight behind the throw.

Lamia flicked her wrist, almost lazily. 

A tiny, humming field blocked Shepard’s throw: not strong enough to lift her off her feet, but her arm wasn’t going anywhere. She struggled against it, hissing and tossing glares at Lamia, who smiled back sweetly.

"Localized Stasis. It took me four months to get it right the first time. I think you can do it in two." Lamia’s smile sharpened. "Control," she said, "is what separates a brawler from a warrior. You’re used to being the bludgeon, Shepard." The field died and Shepard’s arm dropped, the datapad falling from her loose, numb fingers. "Try being the whip. Then we’ll talk about the  _Polaris_ amp.” 

*** 

_**2183.** _

"Do you always eat so much?" Garrus asked, in his direct way that always turned to embarrassment a few seconds later.

Shepard took her time chewing and swallowing before she looked up. “Four thousand five hundred calories a day,” she said. “And that’s for the days when I  _don’t_  use my biotics. Kaidan’s got to eat half again as much, right?” 

"Right, Commander." Kaidan chased a puddle of sauce around his plate with a slice of bread. "After you take me on the ground squad, I could probably out-eat Wrex."

From his end of the table, Wrex barked a laugh and tore off a piece of meat — real meat, not vat-protein. Shepard had no idea what animal Wrex’s “steak” had once belonged to, and she wasn’t going to ask, but the missions on Noveria meant the  _Normandy_  had been able to restock the galley with actual food. Normally, she hated pasta, but she was halfway through her third helping, and already debating a fourth.

"I didn’t mean to be rude," said Garrus, in a low aside to her. "I haven’t been around many biotics." 

 _And now you’re surrounded by them_ , she thought, with a pang of sympathy. She had a vague idea of turian cabals, thanks to Lamia and to the N7 program. Nihlus didn’t seem to have a problem, but then she hadn’t known him long enough to know for sure. 

"It’s fine, Garrus," she said. "No harm." 

He nodded, about to say something else, when Emerson yelled “Grieco,  _catch!”_ and held up a butter knife. 

Shepard flicked her wrist, the mnemonic coming to her muscles without effort, and caught Emerson's arm before he could make the throw. The table went silent; even Wrex looked impressed. 

 _Thanks, Lamia_ , Shepard thought, and plucked the knife out of Emerson's hand as she let the Stasis fade. “Manners, Emerson,” she said, and set the knife beside her plate. Emerson flushed dark red and murmured an apology.

Kaidan grinned down at his plate. Across the table, Garrus gave her a nod.

 _I think I'll have that fourth helping,_ she decided, nodding back.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weaver's got a crush. Spoilers for Part One of _Ghost_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Tumblr drabble for a "Seven Deadly Sins" meme -- thievinghippo asked for Lust and Weaver.

Okay. Whatever. Weaver’s nineteen and she’s not a saint. But everyone can just quit it with all the jokes about her getting all heated up over tech. Especially Sidonis. If he makes one more crack about how she looks at that tactical cloak, she’s rigging his omni-tool to play elcor porn all the time. 

It is a nice tactical cloak, but there are things that get her, right in the gut. And very few of them are humans. 

She does like humans — that old vid about the puppets and the maze and all the weird singing pretty much guaranteed she’d be into tall, skinny, superior males for the rest of her life, but that was before she met Sensat. 

He served noodles at a shitty little booth just outside her apartment block. She stopped once on her way back from her job as a courier, and bought a bowl of noodles because she overheard the salarian talking about how his omni-tool kept glitching.

He had a good voice. Low, for a salarian, and he laughed. A lot.

It had been over a year since she’d gotten any, and that laugh went straight down — all the way down — in a hot red line. She offered to fix his omni-tool, free of charge. Their fingers brushed as he passed it over and Weaver blushed, straight down, all the way down.

After that, whenever the gunshots paused, she’d sneak out of her apartment, hoping that creepy batarian from down the hall wouldn’t see her, and run down to spend too many credits on chewy, tasteless noodles in mystery broth. Just because she thought the salarian was cute. 

It was all in the hands. Two fingers instead of four — that took some getting used to, but then he’d twitch and they’d crook, _just right_ , and she’d imagine those hands doing more than serving food, she’d imagine them —

Let’s just say the noodles got dumped down the garbage chute half the time because she got distracted and let them congeal into a lump. She’d lay in bed, sweating, and tell herself she wasn’t going back. Salarians weren’t into humans. He wasn’t into her. 

She’d go back a few days later. He’d grin and say he missed her, and the cycle would start again: would his mouth be cold or hot if she kissed him? Could she span his waist with her hands? Was there a way — maybe, just maybe —

So yeah. Make all the cracks you want about how Weaver looks at tech — she loves tech, you can take that to the bank — because if you’re still joking, you’re not seeing the way she looks at Sensat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [thievinghippo](http://thievinghippo.tumblr.com) who prompted the word "tear" on Tumblr. 
> 
> Warning: spoilers for _Ghost_ , character death.

She knows she’s dying.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid._  She heard the gunfire and she just  _froze_ , hand on the comms, and forgot to put up her shields. And then fire at the door, and the sisters screaming —

_Stupid._

It was personal, the shot to the chest, but not fatal. Not immediately. If someone had been able to move fast enough, they might have saved her. But everyone who could save her was dying too, and she had to watch.

That’s the whole point. The way she’s torn open, the way her friends are thrown around the common room like trash? It’s a  _message_. She fucked with them too many times, long before she and her boys signed on with Archangel, and this is as much a warning to him as it is settling a debt with her.

 _Stupid_.

She tries not to waste what time she has left on tears, but she’s nineteen. She was supposed to be a badass, all wisecracks and sharp teeth, till the day she died.

Now there’s just the underside of her workbench above her, and the tiles under her back. It’s been quiet so long her ears are ringing. She’s getting sleepy, so she presses her hand down against her chest and uses the splinters of pain to keep herself awake.

Footsteps. She holds her breath, pressing down again with her cold, sticky hand, wincing as the pain settles deep in her chest. She doesn’t want them to find her again.  

When she recognizes the footsteps, she exhales, and the fear transmutes itself into guilt. Worse, it turns into shame, and that squeezes out her anger. Now she’s just a kid, trying not to yell for help.

 _Stupid_.

It sounds like he’s stumbling, but he keeps getting up and moving forward. Of course he does. She saves her breath until he reaches her. 

When he kneels down and says her name, that’s all it takes. She’s got one thing left to say, but now that she’s crying she can’t stop.

 _Stupid_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt on [my Tumblr](http://theherocomplex.tumblr.com/): "wee Eliza meets her first aliens? maybe turians?".

At ten, Eliza is mostly eyes and elbows, with a generous dusting of freckles and a sunburn thanks to a summer spent on Earth. Hannah can hardly look at her; she’s grown at least two inches, and when her hair catches the light, russet highlights are spun through the darker strands. She’s grown up enough to sprint ahead of her group’s chaperones, yelling over her shoulder to her friends. 

Hannah feels an ache in her chest, and barely resists the temptation to pull up her omni-tool’s camera. Eliza would be humiliated if her mom so much as hugged her in public — what would having her  _picture_  taken do to her street cred among the other feral children? 

"Mom!" Eliza’s caught sight of her, and instead of hiding is waving, gapped smile splitting her face in two. She’s still sunburned on her shoulders, knock-kneed as she starts to barrel toward Hannah, and she’s —

— she’s heading straight toward the turian family saying their subdued goodbyes near the windows. 

"Eliza, sweetie, watch out!" Hannah yells, too late. Eliza slams into one of the turian children, a little girl about her own age, and they go flying in a mess of limbs and squeals. 

 _Oh shit,_ thinks Hannah. With their luck, Eliza just crashed into a diplomat, and is now about to set off humanity’s second war with the turians. She breaks into a run, already sweating, and yanks Eliza to her feet. 

"I am  _so_ sorry,” she says in a rush, shoving Eliza behind her. “My daughter — oh god, are you all right, little one?” 

The turian girl shoves herself to her feet with exaggerated care, dusting off her tunic with short movements. “Fine,” she says in a thin little voice that’s deeper than Hannah expected — and she’s not a girl at all, she’s a little boy, with grave eyes and posture stiff enough to hang a jacket on. “I’m fine,” he adds, stepping back toward his father, leveling a canny little stare at Hannah. “Why are you apologizing? It wasn’t your fault. It was  _hers._ " He points a long finger behind Hannah, to where Eliza is peering around Hannah’s hip. 

"I’m sorry," Eliza says, peering a little farther. "I hope you’re okay." 

"I’m  _fine,”_ the turian boy says again, sternly. Hannah feels her mouth twitch in a grin and glares at Eliza to hide it. “You need to watch where you’re going, human.” 

There’s nothing unkind in the way he says  _human_  — it’s delivered in the same somber tone he’s used since he started speaking, but Hannah feels Eliza bristle at her side. 

"I said I was  _sorry_ ,” Eliza bites out. “Besides, _you_ watched _me_ coming. You could have  _moved.”_

The turian father coughs into his hand and turns away as his wife glares at him. 

It delights Hannah that some things cross species lines, but her delight only lasts as long as it takes for Eliza to step around her and stand in front of the turian boy. 

"So you’re a turian," she says. "That's cool but I thought you’d be…" She makes a vague gesture with both hands that could mean anything at all, and Hannah chokes. She can  _smell_ the diplomatic incident. 

"All right, Eliza, that’s enough. Say you’re sorry, and we’ll be gone." Hannah sends an apologetic look toward the rest of the turian family, who all give her the same serious nod, even the younger child. 

"Sorry," says Eliza in a rush, then plunges on. "I like your make-up," she tells the boy, stabbing a finger at his face. He blinks and backs up, startled. "Mom says I can’t wear make-up till I’m in middle school." 

The boy draws himself up even higher, and glares down at Eliza from one inch over her head. “It’s not make-up, and you talk a lot.” 

"Garrus!" snaps the mother, and now it’s her turn to give Hannah an apologetic look. "Say you’re sorry." 

"Why?" asks Garrus. "She does." 

"Well, you’re —" Eliza spits out, but Hannah claps a hand over her mouth and drags her squirming, shouting daughter away. Why she let Eliza say anything beside an apology, she’ll never know. 

What she does know is that Eliza needs to be kept away from civilized alien life until she’s a bit older. Galactic politics can’t handle her form of interspecies diplomacy, and Hannah suspects it won’t ever be able to. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Weaver and Sensat, romantic kiss, upside-down kiss.

Weaver yells “Movie night!” and the squad  _scatters._

Butler’s already gone — Nalah got the night off from the clinic, so he’s taking her out for a dinner that’s guaranteed to be only about thirty percent sleazy (this is Omega, after all, even the classiest places are still shitholes compared to the rest of the galaxy). Grundan and Sidonis ignore her completely, Erash disappears with Ripper and Monteague into the practice range, and Garrus just gives her her a flat look that cuts the  _wanna hang out, boss_? right out of Weaver’s mouth. 

"Well, fine," she says, as Mierin and Melanis drag Vortash upstairs. "Sensat, you going to abandon me too?" 

He blinks wide eyes up at her, a stylus stuck in his mouth. “Sorry, Weaver,” he says around the stylus. “Wasn’t paying attention. What’s happening?” 

Sometimes, Weaver thinks, sighing to herself as Sensat turns back to his datapad, being in love with a salarian is fucking  _awful._

"Movie night," she says. "There’s a vid marathon. Old Earth superheroes vids, based on comic books. It might be cool." 

She expects him to say yes just to humor her, because that’s the kind of guy Sensat is. He’s just  _nice_ , and not like the Nice Guys who sit with their legs spread on the metro so they take up three seats, or tell her she’d be pretty if she grew her hair out and stopped wearing so much make-up. Sensat is kind. If she asks him to watch her back while she hacks a lock, he’ll do it. If she craves noodles, he goes and gets them. 

Being in love with a nice salarian is  _so shitty_  Weaver can’t even think about it without shriveling a little inside. She’s not going to ask him for something he doesn’t want to give, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t wish for something, when she can hear him breathing in the bunk below hers every night. 

"Superheroes," says Sensat. "Okay. Let’s do it. I get to pick next time, okay?" 

The  _next time_  makes her heart twist, but Weaver stays cool. She’s too cool. “Deal,” she says, and flops next to him on the couch, not quite touching. 

*** 

"That looks extremely uncomfortable," Sensat says, with a nod at the screen. Mary Jane is kissing Spider-Man, who is hanging upside down (and also secretly Peter Parker), and both of them are being soaked by the rain. "And unsanitary. Why do —" 

"We’ve been through this," says Weaver, laughing. "Let me lay it out for you: it feels good, it’s comforting, it feels good, you do it when you care about someone, it feels good. Sanitation is not what’s important here."

Sensat frowns a little. “I hope her hygiene is up to par,” he says. 

Weaver chokes down the urge to throw a datapad at him. “Sorry for being a filthy ape,” she says, a little hurt climbing into her voice. 

"I never said you were a dirty ape." 

"Yeah, but you thought it." 

"I just —" Sensat turns and looks at her, his mouth twisting up at the side. "I don’t understand it. If it makes them — humans — happy, then I’m glad, but it’s not something that appeals to me." 

"Eh, it’s fine," says Weaver. She picks at a hangnail, wondering if she should make an excuse and head back to her workbench. Her heart’s not really in the movie any longer, and if she hangs around here, she’ll say something stupid. "It’s not a problem." 

Without a word, Sensat reaches out and covers her hand with his. It takes a moment for Weaver to understand what he’s doing; it isn’t till he slips her fingers through hers that she realizes he’s holding her hand. 

"But this," he says, smiling, his face a sweet wash of creases, "is something I could do. I like it. Do you?" 

Weaver gapes at him, nodding, as something better than hope starts to glow in her stomach. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: “Zealous: a story about one or both characters getting carried away by their enthusiasm -- for Ghost!Liara".

Humans call places like this a  _church_ , or perhaps a  _chapel_. Liara’s translator tends to muddle religious words when it comes to human languages, though she knows enough to not call this a temple. 

A more accurate term would be  _mausoleum,_ but even that is a misnomer.  _Mausoleum_  implies that a body is contained within. It implies rest, a laying-down of burdens. None of these implications are true, in this case. There is a coffin, burnished wood and chrome fixtures; there are mourners, some noisier than is proper. The air in the room — whatever its proper name — is thick with the scent of flowers. 

Did Shepard like flowers? Would she admire the heavy blooms nodding sleepily in their vases, or would she take one glance and dismiss them? 

Liara does not know. In a year of traveling and fighting at Shepard’s side, she never thought to ask. 

She swallows down a sob and tears her eyes from the coffin, promising she will not shame her squadmates by sobbing like a child. The tears linger, close to the surface, and threaten to spill over when her gaze falls on Shepard’s mother. 

Hannah Shepard sits ramrod straight in her seat, and if she notices the tears on her cheeks, she does not acknowledge them. Unlike all the other human mourners, she is not dressed in an Alliance dress uniform, but a simple black sheath, with a heavy fringed shawl over her shoulders. She is not a soldier today; she is a mother whose child is gone. Gone without a body, gone without last goodbyes — vanished into the past tense, to live on only in stories and a mother’s memory. What does Hannah see, when she looks at the coffin? 

Liara closes her eyes, and sees Shepard as she was in those first few moments, in black and red armor, dirt on her face and hair falling from a tight knot at the back of her head. And  _smiling,_ smiling as she tossed aside a spent heat sink. 

_"Dr. T’Soni, I presume?"_

The voice of a dead woman rings in Liara’s ears. Her body echoes with it, like she is a hollow bell and Shepard’s voice is the clapper within. But Shepard is gone and will not speak again, and the presence that held this strange family together will bind them no more. 

They lost Ashley, and only Shepard and the need for justice for their friend kept them together. Without Shepard, what is left? Already Garrus is lost to them, silent and hungry-eyed. Tali will go back to the Flotilla, and Kaidan will go back to the Alliance. They will leave and how will Liara rest, how will she again find her voice? 

Her family is dying. It crumbles in her hands like dry leaves. Even Kaidan’s hand on hers is nothing but an empty promise. He is already gone. 

Without Shepard, nothing holds together. 

Without Shepard —

_No._

If there was one lesson Liara learned at Shepard’s side, it was the lesson of  _will._ Shepard’s will brought down a monster from the low, dark spaces between galaxies. What could her will have done, had she lived? 

Liara does not know. A new road, long and lonely, opens before her. Can she walk it? Can she fix this terrible grief, and bring hope again? Is this how she will keep her family alive?

She chokes on her tears, hardly hearing her sobs. Can she? 

She can. She  _will._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Eliza Shepard is treated to a spa day by her crew. 
> 
> I went a bit off-topic, but the sentiment remains.

They’ve been shopping for the past six hours. Garrus isn’t normally one to complain, especially not on a day when Shepard is blissfully free of worrying about the war, or Cerberus, or whatever other horrors the galaxy is constantly regurgitating, but he’s hungry, and his feet hurt. 

Not to mention his pride, which has taken a significant hit over being demoted from Expert Reaper Advisor and defacto XO of the  _Normandy_  to what Shepard called a  _dray mule_. His translator glitched over the phrase, but with his arms full of bags and packages, he’s sure a good equivalent would be  _beast of burden.  
_

"Just one more thing," says Shepard, glaring at her omnitool. "Oh, shit." 

It’s not the tone she uses when, say, a Harvester is about to drop on top of their position. That  _oh, shit_  is unimpressed, resigned, and surprisingly eloquent. It means  _nothing’s ever easy_ , it means  _remember, the armor is weak at the joints and just under the thorax_ , it means  _I’m going to get bored and Charge into all your sightlines in about five minutes, sorry_.  _  
_

This _oh, shit_  actually sounds worried. 

Garrus juggles an armful of bags out of the way. Shepard is still glaring at her omnitool, but now her mouth is puckered into a tight  _o_ , and her brows are drawn together. 

If Garrus didn’t love living quite so much, he’d say Shepard actually _looked_  worried. 

"Problem?" he drawls, and Shepard looks up with a start. Her face breaks into a smile, the not-worry disappearing, and she stands on tiptoes to kiss his mandible. 

"Not as such," she says. "Just…sub-optimal." 

"That’s not comforting, Shepard," he half-teases. Shepard’s idea of sub-optimal — an idea he’s absorbed through osmosis — sends most people into screaming fits. "Should I have brought the Widow?" 

She laughs, and kisses him on the mouth this time, lingering a little before settling back onto the balls of her feet. People are watching; Garrus can hear the whispers.  _Is that Shepard? It is! Don’t stare. I’m not staring, I’m looking. Is she kissing that turian? Lucky turian. Lucky Shepard._

"I don’t think it’ll require a sniper rifle," she says. "It’s just dress shopping. Lamia’s throwing a fundraiser for the war effort —" 

"— and she wants you to attend?" 

"I  _am_  her pet Spectre. Have to put on a good show for the investors.” Shepard shrugs. There’s no malice in her words, only light self-deprecation. If anyone else called her a  _pet_ , Garrus is sure they’d be missing all their limbs within five seconds. And that’s  _before_  he got hold of them. But Lamia? 

He’s not going to argue with Lamia about anything. 

"She’s invited you, too." Shepard bumps his shoulder with hers. "There’s going to be a lot of rich turians hanging around who’ll want to talk with Advisor Vakarian." 

He makes a non-committal noise. Playing nice is  _necessary_ , but the idea of wasting a night trying to make conversation and watching Shepard being treated like some  _novelty_  while thousands die makes his gut ache. 

"I know," she says, quietly. "I’d rather not, but Lamia’s got her hooks in some big investors. Clinics for the refugees, better accommodations — it’s worth it.

"Besides," she adds, flashing him a crooked smile. "You’ll get to see me in a dress." 

"Old news," he says, trying to sound bored and failing; Shepard’s tastes in dresses tend toward the outwardly flowing and the inwardly architectural. Corsets, he decided a few months ago, were one of humanity’s greatest inventions. 

"Big talk for someone who’s not allowed to help me pick out underwear anymore." 

*** 

"Garrus? Can you help me for a minute?" 

He looks up from the report to find Shepard peering out from behind a curtain. Only her head is visible, her hair falling in a heavy sheet on either side of her face, and her cheeks are pinked under her freckles. 

"What’s wrong?" he asks. "Do you need me to get someone?" He glances out toward the cash register at the front of the store, but none of the attendants are visible. "Hold on, I’ll —"

"Oh my god, Garrus, no, just — just get in here." Shepard’s head disappears behind the curtain, and Garrus follows her in. 

His little noise of surprise is muffled immediately when her hand covers his mouth. “Don’t say a word,” she whispers. 

She doesn’t have to warn him; Garrus is no longer capable of speech, let alone speech at volume. When she lowers her hand, all he can say is “Huh”. 

“ _Huh_?” she hisses. “That’s the best you can do?” 

Garrus wants to tell Shepard that  _yes_ , it is — and she can’t blame him, because she’s wearing nothing from the waist up, and from the waist  _down_ , she’s covered by scraps of fabric and ribbon (he’s sure there are human names for all of them, but he’ll be damned if he can remember them now) that don’t conceal so much as they draw attention to the creamy, freckled skin underneath. 

"Shepard," he manages to say, hands already reaching out for her. "You…" 

"I’m terrible, I know," she says, pressing herself against him and winding her arms around his neck. "But we deserve to relax and have a little fun. Stop worrying and kiss me." 

The last sentence has all the force of a command, and the part of him that wants to resist — they are dangerously close to  _being in public_ , and that curtain is no protection at all — is overridden by the part of him that loves this stupid idea and this stupid risk. They might be dead tomorrow. Why not? 

He kisses her, and as she melts into him, he grips her thighs and lifts her, pinning her back to the wall. 

After that, it’s just her sweet gasps and warm, warm skin. 

*** 

Lamia bears down on them, smiling and with both hands held out. 

"Shepard, my love." She kisses Shepard twice on each cheek, then turns to Garrus and inclines her head. "Advisor Vakarian, welcome." 

"Matriarch Odrade," he replies, nodding in turn. Someday he’ll convince her to call him by name, not title, but something in the glitter of her smile warns him not to try tonight. 

"I’m so pleased you both could come — I promise it won’t be too taxing." Lamia brushes a loose strand of hair behind Shepard’s ear. The gesture seems strange to Garrus; he isn’t used to seeing Shepard allow anyone into her personal space except on her own whims, but Lamia supersedes all limits. "You look lovely, Shepard. That dress is exquisite." 

It certainly is. Black velvet, cut close to Shepard’s figure, a low-scooped neck and long sleeves — it’s as unshowy as Lamia’s dress is extravagant, but Shepard’s skin gleams like a pearl against the fabric, and she is almost unbearably beautiful when she smiles. 

"Thank you, Lamia." Her smile sharpens, and she gives Garrus a wicked sidelong look that makes him pretend to cough to cover a messy snort of a laugh. "Garrus helped me pick it out. He was  _so_  helpful.” 

Lamia beams at him, and Garrus decides not to offer any details. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Dystopia - An imaginary place of total misery. A metaphor for hell, Ghost!Garrus.

Two doors down, someone had been weeping for the last ten minutes. The sounds had changed from guttural sobs to near-laughter to an unending run of words,  _I’m sorry I fucked up I’m sorry I won’t do it again_. 

He could ignore it. Maybe it was better to stay below the radar, and not draw attention to himself. That thing earlier, when he’d shot the mugger — that had been a mistake. He’d come here to lose himself, not draw eyes in his direction. All he wanted was a smooth slip under the currents, to wash away without protest. 

The sobs cut off, and silence rushed in, fast enough to make his head ache. He lifted his head from his pillow, waiting. There were degrees of silence, and this wasn’t the peaceful kind. 

He was out of bed and grabbing his pistol by the time the real screaming started. 

 _Bad idea, Garrus_ , Shepard whispered in his head, but she sounded pleased. 

*** 

The turian at Garrus' feet blinked up at him through watery eyes. Two of her fingers were broken — shattered, really — but medigel would blunt the worst of the pain. 

"You’ll be okay," he said. He had to step over the bodies to reach her, and she cringed away from him as he approached, her carapace pressed tight to the wall. "Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you." 

"Why — why —" The turian retched, and he held her steady until she lifted her head. "Why’d you help me?" she whispered, as he pressed the ampule to her bare arm. "I didn’t think anyone would." 

 _I nearly didn’t_ , he thought, and closed his eyes. “I’m not just anyone,” he told her. “Think you can walk?” At her nod, he eased her to her feet. “Do you have anywhere you can go? Somewhere safe?” 

"There’s a clinic," she said, her steps steadying as they neared the door. "I’ll be safe there — thank you, oh, spirits,  _thank you_.” 

Garrus waved her words away, scouting the corridor to make sure it was clear before leading her out. “Then let me get you there. Just a little farther.” 

 _Finally putting those words into action,_  said Shepard.  _Good to see some of my lectures paid off._

He shut his eyes against her voice and started down the hall. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [spinninglenny](http://spinninglenny.tumblr.com) asked for "“We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?” for Eliza/Garrus? Thank you ♥"
> 
> Thank _you_ for such a cute prompt!

“You do realize this is Benning, right?” Shepard yelled over the thunder. “Not only is this planet the absolute ass-end of the galaxy, it’s got  _acid rain._ The Reapers can have this one.” 

“I wonder what Udina would think if he heard the Savior of the Citadel talking like that,” Garrus replied. “Come on, Shepard. Fifteen minutes till extraction. What could –” 

Shepard squawked, a sound she immediately regretted as Vega snorted into his gauntlets and pretended to sneeze to cover it. “Don’t say it,” she hissed through gritted teeth, glaring at the back of Vega’s head. “Don’t fuck this up, Garrus.” 

“What, feelin’ superstitious, Lola?” Vega turned to smirk at her. “Don’t wanna jinx the mission?” He held a hand out past the edge of the prefab, wincing as his shields sparked and flickered when the rain hit them. “Hard to think it could get worse, you know?” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Garrus leaned against a wall, all easy lines under the solid, acid-pitted armor. “I can think of a lot of ways it could be worse. But then, I’ve been with Shepard longer. Got a lot more experience to pull from.” 

Shepard watched Garrus from under her lids, trying to resist a smile. Acid rain, smog, panicked civilians – Benning was a nightmare, one she wanted to shower and sleep off, but it was hard to hate the planet, with Garrus and Vega making terrible jokes the whole time. 

Hard to hate anything, as long as Garrus was there, haunting the edges of her vision, so in tune with her that she could communicate everything with a nod, or a twist of her fingers. 

“Yeah?” said Vega. He squatted down, peered through the scope of his assault rifle. “Well, we’re clear, and we still got twelve minutes till extraction. Hit me, Scars.” 

“You realize that this is exactly the opposite of  _not jinxing ourselves,_ right?” Shepard said, leaning against the wall next to Garrus, where she had a clear line down the block if she needed to Charge. He bumped her shoulder with his, humming low in his throat. 

“Vega here says it can’t get worse. I’m doing him a favor, Shepard.” 

“And what’s that, boss?” she asked, sliding an inch closer.  _For the better sightline_ , she told herself, as their armor clanked together.

Garrus gave her the turian equivalent of a smirk, all raised browplates and flicking mandibles. “Lowering his expectations. With you, things can always get worse.” 

“I’d be insulted if it weren’t true,” she said, grinning up at him. “At least you’re never bored.” 

He watched her face for a long moment – long enough for Vega to sidle away and make a show of checking the clips in his rifle. “No,” he said, quiet, just for her ears, and warm enough to heat her cheeks. “Never bored.” 

Shepard tried to find a reply – anything – but something moved, fifty meters out, and she had her pistol raised a half-second later. 

“You see that?” she asked. 

“I see it,” Garrus replied. “Looks like a few Engineers, maybe a Phantom – if you’re lucky, Shepard.” 

“Yeah, we all know how much you love to whomp ‘em, Lola,” said Vega. “What’s the play?” 

“Their shields’ll come down, same as ours, so you two stay in cover till I give the signal,” said Shepard, her heart picking up pace as she switched to her shotgun. “Garrus, make sure none of those turrets get set up. James, cover the left flank. I don’t want any surprises when I land in the middle of those assholes. Got it?” 

“I’ve got  _you_ ,” said Garrus, just before she Charged, too low for Vega to hear. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr prompt -- [dearophelia](http://dearophelia.tumblr.com) asked: because I am clearly interested in pain: Weaver and Garrus, downtime.

The Omega markets somehow manage to be cold and humid at the same time. Weaver regrets not grabbing a jacket before she left the base, but when the boss said “Weaver, with me”, she hadn’t hesitated before throwing herself after him. A mission! The boss wanted her! For a mission! 

On her  _birthday,_ too. 

A  _shopping_ mission. Weaver shudders.

The boss - _Garrus, he told me to call him Garrus_ — is halfway down the corridor, picking over an omni-tool display. As Weaver watches, he rocks back on his heels and tilts his head down, like he’s listening to something being whispered into his ear, but when she reaches his side, there’s no one there. 

Weaver wants to ask the sisters or Sensat if they’ve ever noticed moments like this, when Garrus seems to hear someone who isn’t there, but she hasn’t quite found the right way to bring it up. It’s weird, Garrus is  _weird_ , but who in the squad isn’t? 

“It’s my birthday. You could have at least brought me along to do something  _awesome_ ,” she hisses to Garrus as she reaches him, running her fingers over the omni-tools. Logic Arrests, Bluewires, all too unremarkable to be anything other than legitimate. “Shopping is _not_ awesome.” 

Garrus doesn’t reply or look up at first, but when he does, it’s with a flicker of mandibles. A smile, sly and teasing.

Weaver shrugs. “Just saying.” A sweep of her fingers tells her that none of the ‘tools has an anti-theft patch on the back, and a twitch of her wrist will deposit the nicest Bluewire into her pocket. 

"Don’t,” says Garrus without looking at her. 

She pouts, trailing after him as he moves to the next booth. “How did you know?” 

“I know you,” he says, with another smile. “Besides, wouldn’t you rather have something a little more…customizable?” He slips something into her hand, then strides off, leaving Weaver to stare at the cool disk. 

A Savant VIII, a little worn, a little used but —

It’s the most expensive piece of equipment Weaver’s ever held, and she doesn’t care that it’s a hand-me-down. This is Garrus’ ‘tool, and she hasn’t seen it leave his wrist in almost a year and a half. 

It’s too much, a gift she can’t accept, because she’s Weaver and he’s Garrus and this is the ‘tool he had when he was with Shepard. She can’t accept this. He’s  _Archangel_. She’s just Weaver. 

“There’s a story behind how I got that,” Garrus says, before she can figure out how to return it politely. “Want to hear it on the way back? We’re done here." 

A  _story_. About Shepard, and the  _Normandy_ , and the race after Saren. Weaver hasn’t asked — the whole squad knows, but none of them have asked, scared of digging bones from shallow graves, but she’s been dying to know.  _Shepard_. The ultimate badass, and Garrus was right there with her. 

The story is the real gift, the ‘tool is just a talisman. Weaver speeds up her steps, turning the ‘tool over in her hands, and tries to match her strides to Garrus’ as he starts to talk. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [dearophelia](http://dearophelia.tumblr.com) asked for "Shark, a sleepless night".

 

Eliza is teething. 

At the first pitiful, weak cry from Eliza’s room, Hannah switches off the vidscreen and heaves herself off the couch. No point in going to bed; Hannah knew that as soon as her head hit the pillow, Eliza would start to cry and toss in her crib, and any chance of sleep would be gone. Better to stay awake until Eliza cried and gummed herself to exhaustion on the coral teether Anderson had dropped off a few weeks before (wearing, Hannah remembers grimly as she walks down the short hallway, an all-too-knowing smile). 

“Hi, sweetie,” Hannah says as she walks into the room. Eliza wails back at her, one tiny fist punching the air indignantly, the teether forgotten at the bottom of the crib. “Want to come watch bad asari soap operas with Mommy?” 

Eliza hiccups, all wide, teary eyes and runny nose, and kicks the side of her crib. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Hannah lifts Eliza and settles the baby’s head in the crook of her shoulder. Eliza presses her face into Hannah’s neck, making small, miserable noises in the back of her mouth, and hiccups again. “I know, I know, it hurts, but it’s going to be fine. We’ll watch TV, and then you can sleep in Mommy’s bed. Just this once. I am _not_  going to be one of those attachment parents who have their kids in a sling when they’re ten years old.” 

Eliza burps. 

“Very nice,” Hannah says through a laugh and a yawn, trying not to think about how tired she is while she gives Eliza a quick, surreptitious diaper check. _Dry. It’s a miracle._  “It’s good to know I’m raising my daughter to have a modicum of decorum.” 

Eliza clucks, nestling closer, a warm, milky-smelling bundle in a onesie with an elephant on the bottom, and fists a tiny hand in Hannah’s shirt. 

She falls asleep, finally, halfway through a documentary on Cipritine architecture, but Hannah stays awake – waiting, just in case Eliza wakes up and needs her. 

*** 

Eliza is studying. 

Well, “studying” is a quaint term for what Eliza is doing. In truth, Hannah thinks, as she makes herself another cup of coffee, what Eliza’s doing is _complaining_ , with a side of glaring at her datapads. 

“Mom,” she yells, even though Hannah is just in the kitchen and Eliza is bellyflopped on the couch in the living room, “I _hate_  linguistics. It _sucks.”_

Hannah rolls her eyes to the ceiling – it’s the third time in the last hour that Eliza’s made that pronouncement, and the urge to break open a bottle of wine is slowly becoming a compulsion – and tries not to sigh. “Heard you the first time, sweetie,” she calls back, glancing over her own datapads, knowing another three hours of work are ahead of her before she can go to bed. “But the sooner you finish, the sooner you can get to bed.” 

She doesn’t add that finishing this project two weeks ago, when it was assigned, would have been a better course of action, instead of wasting time with Michael Burton down on Zakera Ward. 

“ _Ugh_ ,” says Eliza. There’s a muffled thump from the living room; when Hannah cranes her head out the door of the kitchen, she finds Eliza facedown on the floor, arms and legs spread wide like a starfish. 

“This is the opposite of studying, in case you were wondering,” says Hannah. “Come on. Get up and get to work.” 

Eliza makes a muffled whining noise into the carpet, then props herself up on her elbows. “It’s just so _dumb_ ,” she says, then flops back down. 

“What was _dumb_ ,” Hannah snaps, her frustration boiling over briefly, “was waiting till the last minute.” She takes a deep breath, swallowing the rest of the sharp words crowding up her throat. “But it’s done, so now you just need to get it done.” 

Eliza sighs, then sits up, folding her long legs under her and rubbing her cheeks with the heels of her hands. “I know,” she says, subdued. “I just –” She sighs again, then shoves herself back onto the couch. “Do we have any coffee?” she asks, looking up at Hannah with pale, hopeful eyes. 

Hannah smiles, thinking of the fresh pot brewing in the kitchen. “Yeah, there is,” she says. “But fair warning, I made it the way _I_  like it, so it’s probably strong enough to keep an elcor awake. You’ll jump, jive, and wail for a week.” 

Eliza rolls her eyes. “You say the _weirdest_  stuff, Mom,” she says, smiling as she picks up her datapad again. The skin between her brows puckers in concentration, and even from her spot in the kitchen door, Hannah can see her chewing on the inside of her lip. 

“Don’t bite your lip, sweetie,” she calls over her shoulder, heading back into the kitchen for the coffee, grinning as Eliza groans after her. 

*** 

Hannah refuses to wear her dress blues; she’s not paying her respects to a soldier under her command, or to a friend she served with years ago. 

She’s not wearing a uniform to her daughter’s funeral. 

Her dress is black crepe silk. It makes her look ancient, with faint lines cracking the surface of her skin and her hair shot through with thick veins of grey, and Hannah figures that’s appropriate. She’s never felt like she’s lived too long before now.  

They say the geth hit the _Normandy_ , and Eliza died getting her crew out. They don’t say how Eliza died, but Hannah’s not stupid. There were two choices: suffocation, or burning, and she hopes, she _hopes_  so hard she can hardly stay standing, that it was suffocation. 

The other possibility – 

No. Eliza tried to breathe, and then she couldn’t, and then she went to sleep. That’s all it was. 

Hannah never remembers if she cries or not at the funeral. Later, she remembers the service itself in pieces: walking into the chapel with Lamia’s arm looped through hers; the pictures of an unsmiling, pallid Eliza in full armor staring at the mourners ( _propaganda_ , says the cynical part of Hannah’s brain); the smell of hydrangeas and lilies; the way Garrus disappeared through the door as soon as the service ended; the blinding sea of camera lights as she walked out of the chapel, and how the newsvids called her _stoic in her grief._

There was nothing stoic about it. It was survival. She won’t turn her grief into a show, the way the Alliance is already turning Eliza into nothing more than a rumor and a myth. She’s a hero, a story to be molded and edited, and a secret to be kept. 

Now, Hannah sits at the kitchen table, still wearing her black dress, and watches her coffee slowly go cold in front of her. 

Eliza is dead. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous prompt on Tumblr asked for **Nettle: cruelty**. 
> 
> Note: any post-ME3 drabbles in the Ghost 'verse are not canon (not yet, at least!), and may be subject to change.

Miranda missed very little about those first few weeks on the SR-2. Few would blame her, she was sure; Shepard approached every interaction like a starving wolf, ready to claw and bite at the slightest provocation, suspicion hung over the decks in a thick fog, and every day that passed meant one more colony might go missing, and more deaths would be laid at their door. 

For someone who prided herself on efficiency in all things, that first month had been…trying. But now, staring down interminable months stranded far from the rest of the galaxy, from any news or rumor, she found herself missing the weeks after the squad began to cohere, when Shepard’s smile was no longer two lines of bared teeth, and when the two of them would sit in Miranda’s office, drinking coffee and watching the stars. 

They could watch stars to their hearts’ content now, Miranda mused, but there was no coffee. 

Oh, there was powdered junk, but it felt and tasted like dirt. She wouldn’t countenance the stuff, and Shepard’s recovery was too precarious to risk allowing fake coffee into her system. 

Or so Miranda told herself. 

“How did you sleep last night?” she asked as she walked into Shepard’s room, by way of greeting. Shepard glanced up from her book – some twenty-first century novel, by the look of it – and smiled faintly. Deep bruised patches ringed her eyes, and Miranda didn’t like the look of the sutures marching down Shepard’s neck and across her chest, where the skin was hot and red. 

“I think I managed about two hours,” Shepard whispered, her voice scratched and rough. Miranda made a mental note to observe Shepard’s larynx more closely during their next exam. “Two _consecutive_  hours. New record.” She coughed weakly, grimacing, and reached for the glass of water beside her bed. With a wry smile, she toasted Miranda and took a long swallow. 

“Two hours is good,” Miranda said. “And your appetite?” 

There: Shepard’s cold gaze flickered at Miranda over the rim of her glass, then away – the expression too quickly gone to decipher. But Miranda had seen it more and more often, and had come to her own conclusion about what it meant. 

“I’ll eat when you give me something worth the effort,” Shepard said lightly, setting the glass aside. 

Miranda gave Shepard’s body an appraising look. Another two or three kilos down, and Shepard would be skeletal. That, however, was an argument for another day. This was just a quiet visit – a visit between friends. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Shepard asked, eyebrows lifting as Miranda took a seat on the edge of her bed. “You’re usually not so informal, Ms. Lawson.” 

Teasing – another good sign. Miranda smiled and smoothed down the sheets. “I wanted to talk,” she said honestly. “Or just to sit – I miss it.” 

Shepard’s mouth quirked in a not-smile, and she looked away. “I’m not very good company these days,” she said, still in a light voice, but she didn’t look back at Miranda, and her mouth slipped into a sad curve. “If you want sparkling conversation, talk to Liara. Or Mom.” 

Miranda didn’t say that she was quite tired of Dr. T’Soni’s company – as tired as Dr. T’Soni was of hers, no doubt – nor did she say that Hannah Shepard was busy working on their little outpost’s QEC, hunting for something, _anything_ , to connect them back home. 

They would not be trapped here forever; Miranda wouldn’t entertain the bare thought. 

Instead, she said, “I was thinking of Joker and EDI, and how they used to argue –”, only to find her voice fading to silence when Shepard’s hands tightened on the book, as if she wanted to throw it away. “Shepard?” 

Shepard shook her head, her dark lids squeezed closed. “It’s nothing,” she whispered. “I’m fine.” 

Miranda didn’t need to look at the displays to know that was a lie; she heard the warning beep of Shepard’s heart rate and breathing climbing, and risked laying a hand on Shepard’s wrist, rather than speaking a warning. 

“Shepard,” she repeated, her alarm growing when Shepard pulled her wrist out of Miranda’s grip and covered her face with both hands. Ragged exhales leaked through Shepard’s fingers, so forlorn they were almost sobs. 

“EDI,” Shepard said, gasping for breath. “EDI and all the geth. I had almost forgotten. Oh, _god_ , what did I _do_?” When she let her hands fall back to her lap, tears glittered along her lashes. 

Miranda frowned, confused and annoyed at her confusion. “Please, Shepard, you must breathe,” she said, resting her hand on Shepard’s shoulder. “If you need a sedative, I can –” 

“No!” Shepard shouted, her voice cracking. “I don’t need a damn _sedative_ , Miranda. I need –” She shuddered, her frail body wracked by the motion, and lifted her fisted hands to her mouth. “I killed them,” she said, and moaned. “Oh god, oh god, EDI, I’m so –” 

“Shepard, stop this!” Miranda snapped. “What are you talking about?” Her confusion sharpened into bewilderment, and made her speak more harshly than she intended. Shepard looked up with watery, pale eyes, still breathing hard. “What _happened_?” 

“The Crucible,” Shepard said through gritted teeth. “The Reapers – they told me if I killed them, I killed all synthetic life. I murdered them _all_ , Miranda. EDI, the geth – they’re dead because of me.” 

“What –” Miranda swallowed, an unpleasant thought worming its way through her head. “They’re not dead, Shepard – not all of them.” 

Shepard made a strangled, helpless noise, her fists still at her mouth. “What?” she whispered, her voice more cracked than ever. “They – what?” 

“Whatever you did,” Miranda said slowly, “you didn’t kill the geth. When we found you – when we left, EDI was still functional.” She swallowed. “EDI was still alive. And the geth had taken heavy losses, but they weren’t –” 

_“_ Alive?” Shepard interrupted, the first tear spilling down her cheek. “I didn’t – but they told me. That kid – oh, _god.”_ She covered her face again, thin shoulders rising and falling. Miranda watched, astonished into silence as the weight of three years and a trillion, trillion dead souls began to lift from Shepard’s shoulders, and Shepard wept into her closed hands. 

_You bastards_ , Miranda thought at the Reapers. _You bloody bastards, I hope you’re all in hell. I hope you’re_ burning.

When she hugged Shepard – gently, gently, careful of all the new scars and of the wounds she had yet to heal – she kept her eyes open long enough to see the stars out Shepard’s window, then shut them, and waited until Shepard had exhausted herself and her tears. 

Maybe, Miranda hoped, Shepard would sleep through the night. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [serrice](http://serrice.tumblr.com), who prompted: 26. “No, the house is definitely not haunted, why do you ask?”

 

“No, the house is definitely not haunted, why do you ask?” Garrus looked up from his omnitool, tried to guess if he was missing a joke. _If I am, it’s one in pretty poor taste_ , he thought. _Vega’s jokes are terrible, but they’re not usually so…pointed._

Better not to think about it. Better to stay focused on the mission, ignore the distant rustling the wind made as it slipped through the hole in the side of the prefab.

Better not to think about what had made that hole, too.

A few feet away, Vega shrugged and readjusted his rifle’s scope. “Just seems like the kinda place that would be. No bodies, just a lot of blood and bullet holes. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“Not really,” Garrus replied. He scanned the corridor behind them, magnifying his visor’s visual output with a twitch of his fingers. No temperature changes, no motion detectors being set off, but that didn’t mean they were alone, not in this war. One thing the Reapers had taught him — one thing the Reapers were teaching the entire galaxy, one burned planet at a time — planning for the worst-case scenario wasn’t just smart, it was _necessary_.

“Aw, Scars, c'mon, don’t tell me you don’t feel it.” Vega shuddered, then rolled his shoulders back. “Whole place feels _wrong_ , like something got into the walls, the air.” He paused for a beat, then grunted. “Fuckin’ Reapers.”

Shepard’s beacon pinged at the far edge of Garrus’ visor’s range, a methodical blur of heat and movement, with Miranda’s not far behind. If he trusted anyone else at Shepard’s six, it was Miranda — but that hadn’t made it any easier to let Shepard head down the corridor without him.

 _Ten minutes to scout the main meeting hall,_ she’d said. _No more, no less. Just to be sure._

 _And if you’re not back in five minutes_? he asked, before he could stop himself, or turn it into a joke.

 _Well, then you and Vega here will just have to come rescue us_ , Shepard replied, quirking the smile he loved best in his direction. _Knights in shining armor._

And then, with Miranda rolling her eyes, Shepard had walked away, into spirits knew what.

Eight minutes and thirty seconds had passed. Shepard’s beacon kept moving, and the comms stayed quiet — but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been trouble, hadn’t been complications —

He resisted the temptation to check in; Shepard might tease about him coming to her rescue, but she wouldn’t appreciate him watching over her shoulder. No, he’d wait, and damn himself for turning into a nervous wreck after all.

“You guys got ghost stories?” Vega asked. “I know you got spirits, but what about ghosts?”

Garrus gave him a sidelong look. Vega’s helmet hid everything but his eyes, and Garrus didn’t know the man well enough to guess at their expression. Best to play along, for now.

“Not really,” he said, as Shepard’s voice rose in his head, from almost three years ago. Had to be careful — skate right up to the edge of the lie, but not over.

Turians as a whole didn’t have ghost stories, but one turian — just one — _did_.

_(Fire’s no way to die._

_You’re not joining me.)_

Vega nodded. “Yeah, didn’t think so. Still — all this crap? You guys’ll probably have some after the war.” He kicked at a piece of rubble, and Garrus watched it skid across the corridor floor and into the dark beyond the last flickering light. “Lots of ghost stories comin’.”

Garrus started to tell Vega they’d only have to worry about ghost stories if they won — but he wasn’t that much of an ass, and their comms hissed before he got the first word out. Thirteen seconds to go.

“Shepard?” he said, aware of Vega standing up straight, spine hard as steel under his armor. “Shepard, are you there?”

“We’re here,” came her voice, floating out of his comms with a faint roar of static behind them. “Got something down here you need to see.”

***

The black water reached to Garrus’ knees, and spread in heavy ripples with every step he took.

“Damn,” said Vega. “What the hell happened?”

Shepard held up a hand to stop their approach, her eyes a pale flash in the glare of their flashlights. Miranda stood behind her, half-hidden by the shadows. “Careful where you walk,” she said, her voice taut and cold and utterly empty. Then: “We found the colonists.”

Garrus didn’t need to look. Shepard’s voice told him everything he needed to know: one more colony gone dark, one more piece of the Crucible’s puzzle lost, another set of lines etched into the skin by Shepard’s eyes. He didn’t need to see the shapes clustered in pitiful knots against the walls. Nothing would be any different from the hundred times they’d seen it before.

He looked anyways. Someone had to. Someone besides Shepard.

“Shit,” said Vega, softly.

“Radio the _Normandy_ ,” Shepard said, striding through the water toward them. “We’re done here.”

“Shepard —” said Miranda, but Shepard cut her off with a short, angry wave of her hand.

“We’re done here,” she repeated. “Set the beacon — it’s a dead zone now.” She hesitated at the foot of the stairs, her head dropping for a moment, then she started to climb, one more shadow among many.

It may have been the rhythm of the black water, but Garrus thought he heard voices, whispering behind them, calling them back.

 


End file.
